


Gratitude

by chainofclovers



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainofclovers/pseuds/chainofclovers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Well, I've responded to one of the prompts provided by my wonderful friends-listers. My response to <span class="ljuser i-ljuser"></span><a href="http://law-nerd.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://law-nerd.livejournal.com/"></a><b>law_nerd</b>'s "(reading) between the lines" is under the cut. Started out with the idea of Miranda eavesdropping on Andy while she talks on the phone; ended up with something kinda porny. Thanks for a great prompt!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I've responded to one of the prompts provided by my wonderful friends-listers. My response to [](http://law-nerd.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://law-nerd.livejournal.com/)**law_nerd** 's "(reading) between the lines" is under the cut. Started out with the idea of Miranda eavesdropping on Andy while she talks on the phone; ended up with something kinda porny. Thanks for a great prompt!

Miranda promised Andrea she would rest her headache in bed, but she can hardly sleep on a quiet night, much less the middle of the afternoon. Especially not when Andrea is talking on the phone relatively loudly just across the hall. She knows she should get up and close the bedroom door the rest of the way, but this headache is a bad one, and she stays put.

“Mom!” Andrea says suddenly, and Miranda’s ears perk up. She’d been half-enjoying, half-resenting the sound of her voice before, but now she’s listening to the words. “Mom, listen,” she repeats. “She didn’t get fired from the magazine. She resigned.”

Miranda’s head pounds, a sharp, long, familiar pulse that says _budget Irv press scandal resignation worthless_. Andrea frequently suggests to Miranda she should tell herself the story she knows is right, that her body will feel better when she’s able to think more positively. She says, _we’re all just the stories we tell ourselves anyway_ , and _I love you_ , and _I believe you. Everyone who matters believes you_. Andrea had only been living in the townhouse for a month before Miranda’s forced resignation. They’d barely had time to settle in before chaos spun everything out of control.

“If I was still with Nate, and he lost his job, wouldn’t you expect me to stand by him? Ironically, I’m standing by Miranda because you raised me right. I love her, and I’m sticking with her.”

Miranda wants to storm across the hall, yank the phone from Andrea’s hands, and tell that woman exactly what’s up: there’s plenty of money, that this town hasn’t seen the last of Miranda Priestly, that nobody’s making Andrea do anything against her will. But almost as soon as the anger rises, it dissipates. Everything Miranda wants to tell Maureen Sachs are things Andrea already knows. That’s all that matters, that Andrea knows what’s fine and what isn’t, and is here anyway. Maybe she was letting Miranda hear her conversation on purpose.

Andrea’s the one who’s spent the last three weeks cooking healthy meals for everyone, now that they’ve let the cook go. The one who lets Miranda sleep in on weekday mornings, if she can, and makes sure the girls are up for school. Who teaches them when to listen to criticism and when to let it roll off their backs like water. The one who holds Miranda and kisses her like it’s still the first week they got together, telling her she’s beautiful and trying to fill the gulf that opened up the afternoon she left _Runway_.

“Still bad?” Andrea asks softly.

Miranda’s eyes snap open. Andrea is standing at the bedside, leaning right over her. Miranda realizes it’s been a couple minutes since she heard Andrea’s side of the phone conversation, that it must have ended while she was lost in thought. “Not so good,” she admits.

“Scoot over.” Miranda scoots, and Andy stretches out and presses her warm body close. She strokes her index finger down Miranda’s face, down her neck, and digs several fingers into her shoulder, right where the tension starts. “An orgasm would be good for your headache,” she continues.

Miranda smiles. Sex, Andrea’s favorite at-home remedy. She nods slightly. Maybe it would help.

“Just relax,” Andrea whispers. “Don’t want to jostle you.” She sits up to unbutton Miranda’s trousers and pull them gently down her legs. Miranda’s underwear gets the same treatment. Andrea stands up abruptly to shut the bedroom door, and giggles as she settles back in, remaining seated for leverage. She strokes Miranda’s hips and thighs, strokes her stomach under her blouse, barely teases the dark hair above Miranda’s sex. It’s so quiet in the room, just breathing and friction. Miranda breathes more loudly when she feels herself getting wet, and only then does Andrea stroke between her legs. She does so gently, almost casually, as if the orgasm she’s promised is on no particular schedule. And, Miranda supposes, it isn’t. Today is Sunday, Andrea’s day off. Every day is Miranda’s day off, at least for now. She’s tensing up and trying to hurry for no reason, and she wills her body to calm. She’ll get her orgasm. She’ll get her job, her self-respect, a break from public scrutiny. She can wait, for once.

“Oh, oh—!” Miranda cries, very softly. Apparently, she’ll get her orgasm very soon, now that she’s relaxed enough to feel it. She can sense it approaching of its own accord, and still she makes sure none of her muscles are tensed in anticipation.

A cloud passes over the sun, and in that moment of grey, Miranda comes. She lets go, and a substantial gush of moisture coats Andrea’s hand. The pleasure of that release (tangible, messy, unashamed) fills her, and takes away almost all of the pain. Then Miranda is decidedly not calm. She scrambles into Andrea’s lap, is wrestling with the button on Andrea’s jeans and wedging her hand beneath the fabric. Begs, “Inside inside inside,” because a second orgasm is waiting, and she needs Andrea to enter her.

Their eyes meet as they fuck. “We have everything we need,” says Andrea, almost sternly.

“I know,” Miranda says, because she does know that, sometimes. Like right now, not that she always appreciates the lesson. Since day one, being with Andrea has forced her to undergo a massive priority shift, but she wasn’t exactly ready to lose her job. “Show me,” she adds shakily, and Andrea maneuvers so a fourth finger joins the three already writhing inside her. Miranda moves her own hand against Andrea, searching for a rhythm. The second orgasm starts small, but ripples outward until it’s impossibly big, bigger than she is, more powerful. Limbs aflame, headache gone, she fucks Andrea faster, until they’re both crying out together.

Andrea doesn’t have to ask if Miranda’s feeling better. They slump against each other, then lie down in a wordless tangle. Miranda feels humbled by this afternoon. A silent _Thank you_ overwhelms her being, a rare prayer of gratitude, flesh and love to flesh and love.


End file.
